


Brothers in Arms

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Big Brother Dean, Comforting Dean, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Ex-Military Dean, Ex-Military Sam, Gen, Heavy Angst, Inspired by Fanart, Meltdown, References to Canon, Soldier Dean, Soldier Sam, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 08:02:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7926997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why is that, man?” Sam shakes his squalid hair into the blood coating the stall tiles like a poor attempt at splash art. He raises one of his bloodied hands and poises his cigarette to his lips again, laughing dryly as the ashes fall between one of the many spider webs in his holed jeans, “Why do I have to be grieving to fall apart? How is that fair? When do I get to grieve for myself—for the death of my happiness?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brothers in Arms

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Petite Madame's artwork: https://www.instagram.com/p/68NdxeCV8_/?hl=en
> 
> Full image: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/25/42/e3/2542e3dd235b85f4cff2b4db30e090a7.jpg
> 
> Sorry, guys. Still going through a writer's block. Hopefully it passes soon!

 

 

"Why is that, man?” Sam shakes his squalid hair into the blood coating the stall tiles like a poor attempt at splash art. He raises one of his bloodied hands and poises his cigarette to his lips again, laughing dryly as the ashes fall between one of the many spider webs in his holed jeans, “Why do I have to be grieving to fall apart? How is that fair? When do I get to grieve for myself—for the death of _my_ happiness?"

 

Dean swallows, his answer lost in the trenches of his throat—if he even had one. When their mom died, he recreated the scene a thousand times: Her pinned to the ceiling of Sam’s nursery, split across the plain of her stomach a gash, from which blood fell like the first raindrop of a storm onto Sam's Cupid's bow.

 

Other times, he would remember a shadow man, same height and build as his father, though not his father, hovering over Sam's crib, blood coasting from his fingertips and into Sam’s mouth before the room lit aflame.

 

No one believed him, of course. Both stories carried no sense of reality. But that was a different time. He was five. And grieving. Adults passed out condolences like candy.

 

His brother’s different. Sam hasn’t dealt with losing his mother, he was too young and chubby, and their father died sometime between their third or fourth tour, it’s too easy to mislay time in the trenches, leaving no time to grieve. Unlike Dean, who has his husband, Cas, Sam is a lone wolf. Has been since the cops labeled the death of Jessica Moore, his ex-girlfriend, mysterious.

 

"I don't know, Sammy," he says honestly.

 

Sam's not looking at him as he blows a ring of smoke. Tears pile on the balcony of his brown eyes, but they don't fall. They never do. "I mean, I know I'm a freak. I've always known that. But this life, it's just too much." He looks down at his bloodied hand. "Too many reminders."

 

"Or not enough."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

Dean shifts on the syphilis-stained floor to point to the dimly-lit wall behind them. "Considering that's the worst you've done, I'd say you're pretty okay for someone who came outta the ringer with their neck intact."

 

"These help," remarks Sam, gesturing to his arms, tattoos wrapped around his biceps. "I still don't know why you won't let me needle you."

 

Dean cringes. "Don't use that terminology. _Needle_."

 

"Dean, we've been shot at with guns. _Real_ guns."

 

"You wouldn't understand, Mr. Coulrophobic."

 

"It's a real fear!" Sam argues before tossing Dean a curious expression. "What did you mean by considering?"

 

Dean lifts the hem of his flannel. Tattooed on his own skin is a pink line running from the shadow of his left breast to his navel. "Bar fight after my first deployment. That was the same night I met Cas, actually."

 

Sam takes a deeper drag from his cigarette before putting it out on the side of the toilet. "Jesus. And remind me again how he dug the whole _Dear John_ thing?"

 

Dean laughs under his breath, causing Sam to laugh a little too. "He didn’t," he says, recalling the memory with a fond smile. "At least not at first. Probably ‘cos he saw me in a bathroom like this with dental floss and bottom shelf whiskey."

 

"That's what you get, falling for a nurse."

 

"To be fair, sewing stab wounds with household items and fist-painting gas station bathrooms with blood isn't normal." Dean bites his lip following the second half of his statement. The memory hasn’t had time to ferment, as it was only an hour ago, but Sam could’ve blacked out—or worse, blacked out and woke up in a padded cell. Thank God for GPS phone tracker apps.

 

"I stand corrected,” Sam says, “We're _both_ freaks."

 

They both turn to each other with similar smiles before Dean's standing up and producing a handkerchief from his back pocket. He takes Sam’s hand in his and swathes the fabric over and around his palm a few times until it looks like a boxing glove, because that’s what Sam is: a fighter. Dean knows because the two of them, they’re woven from the same cloth. "In that case, if we can’t do it alone, we might as well be freaks together.”

 

Sam clutches his chest. “Hold me, Dean. That was beautiful.”

 

“Shut up,” Dean gripes, though there’s no ammo behind it. It’s actually nice to have his brother’s arm slinging around his shoulders rather than an AK-47.

 

When Sam pulls himself to his feet with a grunt, Dean grunts equally as strained (now that he’s basically supporting two bodies) but reassuring, “You’re alright, you’re okay.”

 

Because they have each other—brothers in arms—and that’s all the ammo they need.

 

 


End file.
